


Don't think about your best friend fondling your naughty bits.

by paradoxmachine



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternative Troll Genitalia, Anal Fingering, Denial of Feelings, Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, Meteorstuck, Mutual Pining, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Repression, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 04:48:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7743943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradoxmachine/pseuds/paradoxmachine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard, being in love with your best bro. It's hard and nobody understands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't think about your best friend fondling your naughty bits.

> Dave: Don't think about Karkat choking your chicken.

It wasn't that unusual for Dave to awaken drenched in sweat and choking on his heartbeat. Hell, these days it was practically routine. That's what happened, he guessed, when your six-scoop emotional baggage sundae was suddenly topped off by a hot fudge drizzle of the physically manifested afterlife shattering into Paradox Space's most intricately detailed anus before your very eyes. It did some bad shit to your psyche or something. Who even needs the comfort net of an afterlife in between you and the complete cessation of self-existence, right?

But lately, the theme of his untimely awakenings in the middle of the night had been a little bit different. As had the dreams that set them off. Less puppets, which was great. And a lot more-

...The thing was, there were plenty of reasons for a dude to wake up with a raging stiffie blasting through his boxers. It wasn't always like, a sex thing. Most of the time it wasn't a sex thing, right? Something to do with REM cycles, or having to piss, or a thousand other completely innocuous reasons.

So it was a total coincidence that he kept having dreams about Karkat Vantas and waking up with with his toy soldier at full salute.

It was hells of inconvenient, was what it was. First off if he did have to piss, aiming with a hard-on was a physical impossibility. Going back to sleep, likewise, was a thing that just didn't happen when your rocket was in launching position. How were you supposed to lay? On your back, with it jutting out into the stratosphere and turning your blanket into a tent the perfect size for small animals to honeymoon in? On your side, with it rubbing against your leg with every breath like a constantly ringing alarm bell or a dude with a megaphone shouting, "By the way, still got wood!"

No. The solution was obvious. It had to go, and the quickest way was a “hands-on” approach.

And again, reminder that this had nothing to do with some innocent dreams about hanging out with his best bro. What was that shit Rose liked to say? Correlation and causation and whatever, the point was they weren't the same. It was just a coincidence, this was just a means to an end, end of story. That's really all there was to say on the matter.

...Which wasn't to say that he couldn't enjoy himself in the mean time. Like, hell, he was up already and not getting back to sleep any time soon. If you gotta have a boner, you gotta rock a boner, right? Go big or go home. An orgasm was a pretty good consolation prize to a full night's rest, all things considered.

Dave’s hands dragged along the folds of his shirt, which stuck to his skin with perspiration. He didn't know why he even bothered wearing clothes to bed anymore. He obviously had no intentions of keeping them on all night and he slept with enough blankets to counteract any chance of getting cold. He peeled it away and shuffled out of his boxers, shivering at the onslaught of frigid air as he kicked his blankets to the foot of the bed.

Nothing in the way, now. Just himself and his hands and- Okay. The trick was to not let his mind wander back to what he'd just been dreaming about. Which was a totally normal thing, of course if you space out after waking up you're going to think about your dream. Don't think about Karkat and the way he'd sit hunched over his husktop, shoulders slumped and brows furrowed while his eyes dissected whatever was on his screen with a rapt attention that Dave had always found hopelessly endearing. Don't think about the way his hands moved across the keys, quick and loud as a thunderstorm. Don't think about the way his chest heaved when he really got into a rant, the flush that rose to his face, the passion in his eyes.

Forget all that. Ignore it, push it away.

Dave closed his eyes and let his hands move slowly down his chest, his stomach, his thighs. He'd never been good at fantasizing the way he was sure you were supposed to, where you pictured a hot celeb taking you to finger town. His mind would always wander from hot milfs to baking pies to landscapes built out of those McDonalds apple "pies" and then suddenly he was jerking it to a tiny village of apple people and trying not to think too hard about what Rose would say about all that.

It was easier to clear his mind, to think about nothing, to think about Touch. The feel of his fingertips gliding along his ribcage, dipping down over his stomach, and back up over the ridges of his hip bones. Dave bit his lip and spread his legs wider, teasing his fingers lightly over his sack, kneading them gently in his palm.

Don't think about apple pies, don't think about Rose, don't think about Karkat's hands. Karkat's long, thin fingers and the feel of his skin. The gentleness of his touch that had, at first, seemed so at odds with his whole persona. The care he'd show if he were touching him like this, like he might shatter him with a single nudge in the wrong place.

Don't think about that, at all.

Dave's lips parted as the thumb of his other hand brushed against the head of his cock before his fingers finally tightened around the tip, two of them easing back his foreskin. He settled quickly into a familiar, easy rhythm, focusing on the feel of it, the sensation of pleasure moving up his shaft and through his lower belly.

It was simple, straightforward, boring even and he was starting to drift in and out of a sleepy haze, lost in the automatic motion. It felt good, but it didn't feel great the way he knew that it could. He'd experimented, because who the hell hadn't? He knew the basic ins and outs of his body.

It was just a lot of extra effort, and a little weird to think about.

He didn't think about it, just reached for the lotion and squirted it generously into his palm. Using lotion wasn't weird, plenty of dudes used lotion when they spanked the monkey. And plenty of dudes fooled around with their bodies so it wasn't weird if he let a finger circle slowly around his entrance, let it press against tight muscle until it eased, until he could slip a finger slowly inside.

It felt good, why should he care if it made him a little... whatever.

It felt good, felt really fucking good to let his fingertip bounce in and out of him, to let it press in deeper, slick and smooth. He paused for more lotion just in case, and then one finger was two fingers, pressing in deep, curling, searching, finding it, and then-

He didn't think about him.

Did not, absolutely did not think about Karkat's hand around his cock and Karkat's fingers pressing him open. He didn't think about the expression on Karkat's face, the way he'd look at him, his smile. A disgruntled, embarrassed, but deeply pleased smile. Reassuring in its uncertainty which matched his own so fucking well. He didn't think about Karkat's body curving over him, Karkat's lips against his, the way they'd feel, the way they'd taste.

Dave rolled onto his stomach and slid up onto his knees and didn't think about Karkat moving into place behind him. Karkat's hands on his hips, Karkat's- his whatever he had, his bulge or whatever sliding into him. The way it would feel to be filled by him, to have Karkat inside him and moving. His face, his expression, the look in Karkat's eyes as he fucked him. That look he got sometimes that made Dave feel like he was everything, not just that he was funny, or smart, or strong and brave. That he was everything to someone and that he mattered, not just what he was, but who he was. Something to be cherished. Something worth cherishing.

Dave gave a muffled moan into the sheets, fingers working frantically in and out of him, palm slapping wet against his ass with every thrust from all the lotion. Karkat's hand working between his legs, Karkat's warmth around him, Karkat's breath on the back of his neck and the sound of his voice ringing in his ears.

Dave didn't even think to catch it as he came. Legs quivering, knees weak, a sound caught in his throat.

He didn't say Karkat's name. Out loud.

Dave slid back down into the sheets like melting butter. He was coated in a fresh layer of sweat and lying in his own mess, but in that moment he didn’t care. For a few blissful seconds he genuinely didn't think at all. It was a perfect, quiet instant where everything felt right. His body was contented, if a little dirty, and his mind was a fog of static. And then whatever he'd been thinking about, whatever it had been... He didn't think about it anymore.

Dave reached for the tissue box and wiped himself down, cursing the wet spot he'd left directly in the middle of the bed. Of course it was. Every fucking time, god damn it.

He cleaned himself and curled up on the left side of the bed, facing the edge. And... yeah, maybe he did think about someone behind him, someone's arms around him, someone's face in his hair. A single kiss to the back of his head, warmth and weight guarding him from the night. It could have been anyone.

But it wasn't.

 

\---

 

> Karkat: Don't think about Dave groping your globes.

Karkat didn’t know what it was about all these stupid, asshole, loudmouthed protagonists. In an Alternian movie they would have made perfect sense, but in the context of a human movie, what was the point of them? They weren’t there to spur on black romances, and when they lost their way, there was rarely a pale partner to set them back on the right path. More often than not, it was their flush partner’s job to sort out their shit, in the most ass-backward displays of disgraceful quadrant blurring Karkat had ever seen.

It was infuriating. The worst was that they didn’t even realize all the mistakes they were making, and the way it made all their plots seem so shallow and one-dimensional. Who would ever willingly shackle themselves to one person for all their romantic needs? And why did they always choose these idiotic, stubborn, self-obsessed sacks of shit when there were so many better options around? Karkat would rather double-die alone than subject himself to a relationship like that.

So why, then? Why couldn't he stop watching and re-watching these pointless, puerile movies? Why did he put himself through these agonizing tests of his patience and why, sweet merciful mothergrub, why did it make him squirm so much to watch them smash their despicable seed flaps against their token love interest at the end of every film?

...He knew why. He knew exactly why, but admitting that to himself was almost as bad as admitting he liked these awful movies because they were so unrepentantly human, not in spite of it.

That didn't make it any easier to swallow his pride once the credits rolled and he was left to assess his situation. Alone, in the middle of meteor-standard sleeping hours, as usual. Alone, and thinking about... movies. Karkat gave a resigned sigh and sank down to his hands and knees on the cold tile floor to fish out a fluids receptacle from inside a storage cabinet to facilitate his unmentionable and unseemly act. Maybe he could sleep after this was all over.

Heh. It was a nice thought.

The best movies were the ones with a protagonist who talked like him. Incessantly rambling, obtuse, and yet somehow endearing no matter how much he wanted to strangle them. The way the pity and the disgust would tangle in his head when he could imagine the lines said in a different voice, through another set of lips. The worst was trying to reconcile the feelings physically when it came time to...

Karkat swallowed heavily and pulled his sweater up over his head, thinking of a pair of soft hands with calloused fingers edging up along his stomach, his chest. What would it be like, to pail with Dave Strider? Frustrating. He didn't even have to think about it to know. Maddeningly frustrating, to the point of physical agony. And yet, those hands. Those fingers. Teasing over his ventral scales, cupping him through his pants and rubbing, kneading. Firm but mocking, noncommittal. Just another game to him, that's what it would be.

They'd argue, they'd tease, and it would sound black, but it wouldn't feel black. It would have all the trademarks, the heat, the anger- but the fear he felt when he watched Dave's smug expression fall was nothing like triumphant black feelings. It would be the same here, if Dave weren't nook deep in antiquated, backwards culture. A biting remark matched with a toothy kiss, too hard and too eager, wanting more than Dave had to offer. Dave's hands pulling at his clothes, his nails pulling at his skin, his lips at his tongue. Karkat would pull back and Take. Take his kisses and his touches. Steal them away and hold them inside of himself where not even Dave could take them back. He was greedy for them, wanting them all for himself.

Karkat dropped his pants to the floor and let his hands ghost along his inner thighs. Dave would never touch him like this, but he could imagine. That distant expression turned thoughtful, the way he looked when he was listening instead of talking for once in his bugwinged life. Dave would touch him like a mystery to be unlocked. Strange, but interesting. He wanted that, wanted to be interesting, wanted to be searched. Dave's hands crawling up his thighs, his palms pressing over his globes, fists closing around them just to see what would happen.

Karkat gave a reluctant moan, wincing his eyes closed to focus on the feel of his swollen globes in his hands. Dave wouldn't do it right at first. It would be too soft, timid and uncertain. There would be none of the guise of false confidence and fabricated experience to hide behind in the bedroom with a troll. That was the Dave he wanted to see.

That was the thing about all these fickle idiots in the movies. There had to be more to them, didn't there? There had to be more for anyone to ever want them around. There was an explanation found between the lines, in the things they didn't say, as much as the things they did. There was a reason for the posturing, and the specifics didn’t matter, because Karkat already knew what that felt like. To hide yourself away.

He wanted More out of these shoddy stock-characters so that he could love them, unashamed, and so he wove it for himself in the gaps left by thoughtless, long-dead writers. Karkat wrote Dave Strider in as meaning, because he knew there was more to be said, that never would be.

Scenes not shown, where Dave would cradle him close and kiss him softly. Listen for once, listen to his sounds and change the way he touched him until it felt like... felt like...

It felt red. It felt brilliant passionate red as his stalk slid from between his flaps, feeling blindly along the length of his forearm and smearing it in sticky scarlet before it began to curl. The Dave he wanted was the Dave he saw in quiet moments, just the two of them, when he stopped playing up for the crowd. That Dave was different, that Dave was not the arrogant coward he presented to the world.

Karkat imagined that Dave might touch him like he wanted him, maybe even like he needed him, the way Karkat needed Dave so very fucking badly. He'd rub back against him and kiss his neck, bounce his strange, soft skinned fingers along his stalk. Catch his moans between his lips.

Karkat didn't even know if this Dave was real, or if he'd written him in to empty spaces because he wanted him to be. Right now, it didn't matter. He was a beautiful fantasy, a Dave who loved him with his baffling human Love. Wholly and completely, him alone. The only one he held this way, close to his chest as he pleasured him. The only one he let hold him in return.

Karkat bit his lip and imagined the look in his eyes. He'd never seen them, but he knew what they looked like. Of course they were red. Of course they were. When had Paradox Space let a chance to mock him go unseized? Red, and looking at him the way people looked in those movies. Their eyes met, moments before their lips, palpable tension in the air between them. That perfect moment of anticipation that was far better than the chaste mashing of lips that followed.

Dave Strider, leaning in to kiss him. Karkat didn't say Dave's name. Out loud.

Karkat's hips jerked sharply and he thrust his arm over the bucket, managing to catch most of the curtain of red within it without splashing. What little was left he could easily clean up with a towel after wiping down his arm. It was over, taken care of, and he felt Tired. Weary as a soldier after the war, worn down by the weight of his disgusting sins.

Karkat leaned back against his recouperacoon, too exhausted to climb inside. He didn't want to be alone now. You weren't supposed to be alone after pailing. That was the one benefit to the system, wasn't it? A guarantee that if you're still alive at the end of it, you won't be alone? He wanted it more now than he had before he'd orgasmed. Dave Strider with his arms around him. Dave with his hands in his hair, his body pressed against his, warm and impossibly soft. Someone was supposed to be here to watch over him as he slept.

Karkat felt sick with how heavy his isolation felt in that moment. It was like being back on Alternia, stuck in his hive, alone and upset at how fucking unfair everything was. Nothing changed. Nothing ever changed.

Karkat looked up, and saw a message flashing insistently on the screen of his husktop, still open from his movie and illuminating the room in a dull glow. He couldn't read the text from here, but he could see the color clearly.

Red.

> TG: hey man you up

Karkat slumped over the keyboard, unable to give a name to the feeling of relief that washed through him. He wanted to say everything all at once, to demand Dave join him, and hold him the way he needed to be held. To demand that Dave "love" him in his asinine, nonsensical human way. Instead, he rubbed at his eyes and then typed,

> CG: WHAT DO YOU THINK?

**Author's Note:**

> Check out [this post](http://thisisnotthepornyouarelookingfor.tumblr.com/post/148679950755/fun-on-discord-feat-brain-ghost-fantasies) for some great art. The first three are for this fic! [NSFW]


End file.
